


I'll Be Seeing You

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Never thought we’d get as civilised as afternoon tea in a quaint little town outside London,’ John said.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>‘Dull, you mean,’ Sherlock replied, getting a new pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, along with his lighter. John reached for it automatically, picking it up, before he remembered where they were and put it down again in front of Sherlock.</i>
</p><p>WWII AU. March, 1944. John visits Bletchley and meets an acquaintance of Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Seeing You

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [I'll Be Seeing You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TU0umVyUJYM).

_March, 1944_

The London to Birmingham train rolled in to Bletchley station at five past ten, smoke billowing behind it. Sherlock jogged along the platform with the still-moving train, towards the second class coaches, glancing in each window until he saw a familiar silhouette, walking stick in hand, standing in front of one of the carriage doors.

As soon as the train stopped, Sherlock sprang forwards and pulled the door open, grinning up at John. John smiled back and stepped down onto the platform, putting his hat on and dusting his smart brown suit down.

‘Hello, Doctor Watson,’ Sherlock said, squeezing one of John’s hands with both of his.

‘Mr. Holmes, a pleasure as always,’ John replied, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.

‘Oh, I’ve spent far too much time seeing you on and off trains,’ Sherlock said, pressing his lips together as he just stared at John, who carefully extracted his hand from Sherlock’s.

‘It’s only been a week,’ John said gently, gripping his stick tightly as Sherlock led the way towards the station’s exit.

‘All the same,’ Sherlock said, putting his hands in the pockets of his coat. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Likewise.’ John pointed to the whitewashed sign outside the station. ‘Good job you know where we are.’

Sherlock chuckled. ‘My directions were satisfactory, then?’

‘If you’re going to call telling me the number of stops to count “directions”, then--’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Sherlock said, throwing John a look as a smirk spread over his face.

***

The two of them had walked slowly towards the town from the station, enjoying the pleasant, if not terribly warm weather. The mile that Sherlock usually managed in twenty minutes took somewhere near an hour with John’s leg, but Sherlock wasn’t about to complain. 

‘It’s very nice here,’ John said, peering at the window displays of the chemist’s and the post office and the hardware shop, all packed tightly together, people in smart daywear going in and out of the shops around them. ‘Nothing like London.’

‘Yes, well Bletchley hasn’t had eighteen thousand tons of bombs dropped on it,’ Sherlock replied, squinting at a bottle in the window of the chemist’s. ‘Although I must say that would probably improve the look of the Park,’ he added in a mutter. ‘It’s positively frightful, I wish I could take you to see it.’

John smiled. Sherlock had cast aspersions on the architectural integrity of Bletchley Park on more than one occasion before now. ‘I’d like to see where you work.’

‘Mycroft could probably get you clearance, though I’d undoubtedly have to do him some sort of favour.’ Sherlock wrinkled his nose and straightened up. ‘Do you want to see about lunch?’

John glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only quarter to twelve.’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock said. He began to walk again, John following. ‘I really ought to have come back home. We’re wandering round a provincial backwater with nothing to do when I could have had you on your back with your legs in the air--’

‘ _Sherlock_!’

‘Oh, no-one can hear me,’ Sherlock muttered, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

‘You can’t say things like that in... in bloody _public_ \--’

Sherlock frowned and looked down at John. ‘I thought I just did.’

‘You’re... you’re fucking impossible,’ John spat, his jaw tight as he shook his head and sighed in exasperation, his face flushed with a mix of annoyance and embarrassment. 

‘Ooh, “fuck”? You must be angry,’ Sherlock said around his cigarette, looking altogether too pleased with himself.

‘Shut up. Just... shut up, for once in your bloody life, Sherlock Holmes.’

Sherlock blew his smoke over his shoulder and grinned.

***

John had allowed Sherlock to talk again directly after he’d taken great pleasure in ordering creamed spam casserole for Sherlock at lunch. Sherlock spent most of the meal glowering at the cold, congealed sauce on his plate, but accepted his punishment as fair and didn’t attempt to embarrass John any further that afternoon. They’d spent the time ambling around the town, going in and out of shops, using up Sherlock’s sweet ration on some hard-boiled, floral-tasting sweets (Sherlock’s choice) and buying a few magazines for Mrs Hudson from the newsagent’s. Both of them were bored out of their minds, and though neither one of them said it, it was achingly obvious.

‘How’s here for tea?’ Sherlock asked at about five, gesturing towards the door of the tea room he and John were next to. I can tell your leg’s had enough with you today.’

‘Of course you can,’ John said, rolling his eyes. ‘Here’s fine, come on.’ He pushed Sherlock by his elbow through the door, a bell above it tinkling, which Sherlock glared at. A group of elderly women in hats sat next to the window, lingering over their tea and buns, but other than that, the place was empty.

‘Find us a seat,’ Sherlock murmured, nodding in the direction of the empty chairs and tables towards the back of the tea room, away from the windows.

John weaved awkwardly between the maze of seating until he found a table far enough away from the counter and the big window that he and Sherlock would have some privacy, but not quite far enough to arouse suspicion. He sat down heavily, exhaling through his mouth and getting comfortable before turning to watch Sherlock as he placed an order for a pot of tea with two cups and a plate of buns and sandwiches.

‘Never thought we’d get as civilised as afternoon tea in a quaint little town outside London,’ John said with a wry smile, hanging his coat on the back of his chair as Sherlock removed his own coat and threw it across the table next to them along with his hat before he sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

‘Dull, you mean,’ Sherlock replied, getting a new pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, along with his lighter. John reached for it automatically, picking it up, before he remembered where they were and put it down again in front of Sherlock.

Sighing, Sherlock opened the new pack and picked out a cigarette, lighting it himself. ‘We’re never doing this again, good God,’ he muttered.

‘We used to go for tea before the war.’

‘I didn’t average half a day a month with you before the war,’ Sherlock retorted, sucking in a deep breath, holding the smoke for longer than he usually did before blowing it towards the ceiling. John took hold of Sherlock’s lighter, the weight of it in his hand comforting and familiar. He pocketed it without thinking when the young woman from behind the counter rested the edge of a tray on their table, setting the teapot out with two cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, a jug of milk, and the plate of buns and sandwiches that Sherlock had ordered.

‘Thank you,’ John murmured, glancing at the woman before taking his hat out of his lap and placing it on the table next to Sherlock’s coat. She smiled, tucking the tray under her arm before going back behind the counter. ‘You’re quite right, let’s never do this again,’ John said, heaping sugar into their cups, sitting back to let the tea brew.

The bell over the door rang again, John watching as a slight, dark-haired man walked over to the counter. There was a gale of laughter from the elderly women in the corner, causing Sherlock to glare at their backs.

‘Yes, I’ll be coming to you in the future,’ Sherlock murmured, pouring the tea and putting a couple of sandwiches and a bun on a plate for John.

‘Well, it’s been nice seeing where you’ve spent the past few years--’

‘Sherlock?’ 

Both John and Sherlock turned their heads at the soft, lilting voice shaping itself around Sherlock’s name. The dark-haired man John had noticed come in a moment ago smiled widely and walked over to their table. He was immaculate in a well-cut three-piece suit, a whimsically patterned tie knotted at his throat, hat to match his clothes tucked under his arm.

‘I nearly didn’t recognise you with all that hair round your face,’ the man said, brown eyes alight with amusement. 

Sherlock smiled stiffly. John flexed his left hand and licked his bottom lip.

‘Hullo, Jimmy,’ Sherlock said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Uh, this is Doctor John Watson, my...’ Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second too long. ‘My friend.’ He coughed.

‘Friend?’ the man’s eyebrows lifted as he looked between Sherlock and John. ‘My my, I was under the impression you didn’t concern yourself with _friends_ , Sherlock,’ he said, offering his left hand to John, who hesitated before bringing his trembling one to join it. ‘James Moriarty,’ Moriarty said, with a wide smile. ‘Hi.’

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ John said, no expression on his face to indicate that it was a pleasure at all.

‘Oh, likewise, likewise,’ Moriarty said, motioning the girl behind the counter over. ‘Mind if I join you?’ He grabbed a chair from the next table and sat down, moving John and Sherlock’s teapot to make room for his own. ‘I must say, this is quite a revelation,’ he said, smirking across at John as he poured milk into his teacup, his ankle brushing against Sherlock’s thigh when he crossed his legs. 

John blinked. ‘I’m sorry, what is?’ he said, sipping his tea, gripping the handle tightly. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply from the cigarette he’d largely forgotten about before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the table.

‘Oh, just seeing Sherlock with someone.’ Moriarty smiled again and shook his head as though the very notion was utterly puzzling. ‘Mind if I cadge a fag, Sherlock?’ he asked, even as his hand slipped into the open pack on the table and took one out, placing it in the corner of his mouth. ‘Got a light?’

‘Uh.’ John reached into his pocket and handed Sherlock’s lighter to Moriarty, who flipped it round in his left hand, raising an eyebrow at the ornate _SH_ carved into the metal before flicking the wheel.

‘Cheers,’ he murmured, handing the lighter smoothly back to Sherlock, who immediately lit another cigarette of his own.

‘What is it that brings you to Bletchley, Dr. Watson?’ Moriarty asked, bringing his cup to his lips, keeping his eyes trained on John.

John reached for his tea with his left hand, the cup shaking violently as he sipped from it. ‘Social call,’ he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

‘For Sherlock?’ Moriarty laughed through his nose, smoke huffing out along with it.

‘Yes,’ John replied, his smile tight.

‘Contrary to popular belief up at BP I’m not an ogre, Jimmy,’ Sherlock said, staring out of the window. He fiddled with the knot of his tie and brushed his hair back off his face; a futile gesture seeing as it fell over his forehead again straight away.

‘I think everyone would have to see that to believe it,’ Moriarty replied, laughing again, drinking his tea. ‘What happened to your hand?’ he asked, gesturing to John’s fingers trembling on the handle of the teapot with his cup.

‘Nerve damage, not that it’s any of your business,’ John snapped, clenching his fist tightly, hiding it under the table. He gave Sherlock a hard, meaningful look, ordering that he play along with the lie.

Sherlock glanced at John and then out of the window again, face pale.

‘Oh,’ Moriarty said, sitting back in his chair, blowing a lungful of smoke to one side. ‘A recent development?’

‘A Nazi shot me in the shoulder in North Africa and left me to bleed to death, does that satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Moriarty?’

Moriarty frowned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’ He drained his teacup. ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ he said, standing, offering his hand to John, who stared at him in silence, flexing the fingers of his right hand against the edge of the table. ‘No? Well.’ Moriarty shook Sherlock’s hand briefly, pulling his coat and hat back on, dropping a few heavy coins onto the table. ‘Right then, boys.’ He smiled at them both, his eyes glittering as his head oscillated from side to side. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ He raised his eyebrows and turned on his heel, sauntering out of the café.

John and Sherlock sat in silence for a long, horrible moment.

‘John, I--’

‘That the sort of company you keep, is it?’

Sherlock rubbed his thumb back and forth on the rim of his saucer. ‘You heard him, I don’t--’

‘ _Jimmy_ , wasn’t it?’

‘I hardly even know him--’

‘You know him well enough to be on first-name terms with him,’ John hissed, ‘despite the fact he’s clearly poison--’

‘Oh, he’s harmless, he’s only just out of Cambridge, he doesn’t know what he’s saying--’

‘He knows _exactly_ what he’s saying, Sherlock.’

‘He had no right to ask you the questions he did but I doubt it was malicious.’ Sherlock reached into his pocket and slammed some coins down next to the ones Moriarty had left.

‘Oh, and I suppose he had every right to make you look a damn fool, then, did he?’

‘He didn’t make me look a fool,’ Sherlock said under his breath, cheeks red, eyebrows knitting into a troubled frown as he shoved his arms into his coat and wrapped his scarf round his neck.

John sighed. ‘Come on. Let’s just... let’s just go before the blackout starts, there’s no sense in arguing like this.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, putting his hat on and handing John his stick. ‘Yes, alright.’

***

‘I’m sorry today was a disaster,’ Sherlock said quietly as they sat on a bench on one of the outdoor platforms, darkness creeping in around them.

John huffed a laugh, rubbing at his bad leg. ‘It wasn’t as bad as all that.’

‘It was. It was utterly terrible. I’ve barely touched you, haven’t even kissed you.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘I forget, what it’s really like, outside the flat. Having to...’ he frowned and looked down the deserted platform. ‘Having to hide all the time.’

‘We haven’t a choice--’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, John, I _know_ we haven’t a choice.’ He pressed his fingertips to his temples.

‘I love you,’ John whispered, curling his hand around Sherlock’s. ‘You’ve got terrible taste in acquaintances, but I do, I love you.’

Sherlock’s shoulders began to shake and soon both of them were laughing quietly together on the bench. ‘What’s the time?’ John asked as his giggles died down. Sherlock got his torch out of his pocket and turned it on for a second, looking out of his watch before clicking it off again. 

‘Almost seven.’

‘Ten minutes. Reckon you can pick the lock to that hut down there?’ John nodded to the dark shape about twenty feet down the platform, towards the very end. 

Sherlock ran off immediately and by the time John reached the hut, Sherlock was already inside. He grabbed hold of John and manhandled him through the door, kicking it shut and then pressing John against it, shoving his lips against John’s.

‘I want you,’ Sherlock moaned quietly, pressing their bodies together tightly, kissing John again, slower this time, sucking on John’s bottom lip before licking his way into John’s mouth.

John nodded, resting his hands on Sherlock’s waist, rubbing their noses together. ‘I know. I want you too. But there’s no time,’ he said, biting down on Sherlock’s full lower lip.

‘There’s never any bloody time,’ Sherlock said when John broke away, his voice quiet and sad. 

‘I love you,’ John breathed, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands and pressing soft kisses to Sherlock’s mouth. 

A train whistle sounded in the distance.

‘I love you,’ John said again.

Sherlock nodded, staring round miserably at the old mop heads and empty bleach bottles he could just make out by the moonlight. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go. You’ll miss your train.’

Sighing, John took hold of his stick and the bag with the magazines in for Mrs Hudson, kissing Sherlock’s unresponsive lips one last time before running, as best he could, to catch the train to London.


End file.
